


A Shot of Happiness

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Love Confessions, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, But Only Lightheartedly Implied, Concerts, Cute, Dean Winchester Has a Cowboy Kink, Few years in the future, First Kiss, Fluff, Human Castiel, I'm Pretty Proud of It, International Fanworks Day 2018, Jon Bon Jovi - Freeform, M/M, Music, Musicians, Plot Twists, Sexual Reference, Song Lyrics, Supportive Castiel, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, fanboy dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 08:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13700862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: Even with having been on Earth for a decade, Cas is still learning about humanity. How humans, for example, find the same kind of fruits in music. Like bees make it their mission to extract the nectar from the flower and take it back to their colony, humans take lyrics and make it their mission to apply it to their own lives in a way that brings them hope or comfort. He knows this because he’s seen Dean do the same. Every time “Ramble On” comes on the Impala’s radio, he’ll crank up the volume and sing way too loudly and off-key. It resonates with him. It makes him feel understood.





	A Shot of Happiness

**Author's Note:**

> Dean is basically how I feel about Supernatural and its cast -- and you guys. Y'all are a big part of me and I want you to know how truly grateful I am for your existence. Live long and fan on. \m/ <3

Cas isn't expecting his morning tea to be spiked with a shot of Dean's enthusiasm until after he takes a languid sip. His lips part from the striped porcelain easier than the honey pooled at the bottom like a sticky goldmine due to the small smile lifting the right side of his mouth. "Sure, why not?"

"Really?"

"Yes, really.”

Dean opens and closes his mouth before he can even get out a breath of air. “Sorry, I just didn’t think you’d be interested in going to a bar. You know, Sam’s on that ghoul case, I’d usually go with him… even though I have to beg him to order a bourbon and coke.”

“As long as there isn’t a brothel attached to it, I’m perfectly happy to accompany you,” Cas states, gripping his chalice tighter to avoid the shiver he can feel creeping up on him. ”Besides, if it's important to you, it's important to me."

Dean's so distracted, he doesn't even notice his robe tie, loose around his waist, coming undone. “Okay,” he says, green eyes sparkling like a bead of water on a parched lilypad. “Yeah. We’re due for a guy’s night out anyhow.”

“Dean.”

“Oh right, um… four-thirty sound good? Should give us enough time to get down there before Happy Hour ends.”

“Dean, your _…_ ” Cas dismisses his own claim with his hand upon the confused expression crossing Dean’s face. It’s not anything he hasn’t seen when he raised Dean from the Pit, anyway. And what Dean doesn’t know won’t kill him. “Never mind, it’s nothing. I’ll be ready.”

Cas grins around his mug the second time around watching Dean head back upstairs with a bounce in his step. Happy Hour, indeed.

 

 

 

The bar’s a small shack five miles from Topeka, surprisingly dense for a weeknight. Mostly with older people—well, older than _Dean,_ anyway, given Cas has millions of years on every so-called “old-timer” in the place.

And of  _course_  it’s Western-themed. Animals of all kind are mounted to the wall behind the bar, gaping at patrons with dead, beady eyes as they drink the fruit of their nature’s loom. Cowboy memorabilia, like vintage pictures of John Wayne and guns from the 1800’s hang on the opposite walls. The bartenders are even adorning cowboy hats and short-sleeve fur coats (which Cas sees absolutely no point in—if it’s supposed to keep you warm, how can it possibly without sleeves?) to match the old country music wafting through the heavy chatter. The only thing missing is a Confederate flag. Or the General Lee.

He supposes it’s better Dean fill his quota this way than running out and buying spur boots and matching chaps, only because Cas is newly human and there’s this thing called sleep, and knowing how Dean is when he gets drunk at home, he would empty one of his guns and fire blanks around the Bunker. 

The drinks are good, at least. And Cas means what he said. He may not understand all of Dean’s fascinations, but he can’t say he doesn’t consider them a blessing. To say Dean’s had it hard is a reach. Love, loss, Hell, death, Purgatory—if there’s something that can bring him happiness or at least temporarily distract him without serious repercussions, then Cas considers it part of his own life, too.

So really, he’s not having that bad of a time when he sees how wide Dean’s smiling. And he hasn’t even touched his whiskey yet. “Isn’t this place great?”

“I can ‘dig it’, as you say,” Cas replies with a smile of his own.

“We should get out together more,” Dean offers. “You know, when we’re not busy trying to save the world.”

“But that means you’d have to give up hunting.”

“You mean my _part-time_ job?”

“Touché.”

“I’d say anything is possible though, you know.” Dean raises and nods whiskey towards him. “If you were able to pull that giant stick from your ass all those years ago…”

Cas rolls his eyes, but can’t help the smile that graces his face when he clinks his glass with Dean’s. “And if you’re still alive after every reckless decision you’ve ever made.”

“The Winchester Way,” Dean replies, still smiling as he brings his glass to his lips.

Luckily, Dean takes a long enough sip for him not to see the blush coating Cas’s cheeks. It’s a nice reminder, knowing he’s part of a family rather than a function. Although missing being an angel, Cas doesn’t think he can go back to being a soldier in a nameless war. Despite the rather unpleasant emotions that come along with it—worry being the most potent—he likes having something to fight for.

“ _Alright, ladies and gentleman, the moment you’ve all been waiting for!”_ one of the burlier bartenders announces, cutting through Cas’s thoughts. “ _Tonight, one night only, please welcome the legendary Jon Bon Jovi!”_

Almost every patron shakes the place with their voices—all except Dean. Not that he doesn’t look uninterested, just a little flush. “Dean, are you okay? Do you need some water?”

“No, no, I’m-uh, I’m good,” he replies with the conviction of someone trying to hide something—which Dean’s famous for.

“Did you know he was coming?”

“Pfft, no! Nah, nah, I—nope, I was just scoping out the place online for the digs. I’m, uh, actually more disappointed they don’t have a bull riding machine.”

Cas narrows his eyes, but turns his head when Dean takes a long pull from his drink. Jon Bon Jovi enters from the back room, signature black acoustic in hand, and takes center stage. It’s a quaint space across the bar, nothing more than a slice of the room with a raised platform, a chair and microphone, but people swarm to it like bees to a flower.

Even with having been on Earth for a decade, Cas is still learning about humanity. How humans, for example, find the same kind of fruits in music. Like bees make it their mission to extract the nectar from a flower and take it back to their colony, humans take certain lyrics and make it their mission to apply it to their own lives in a way that brings them hope or comfort. He knows this because he’s seen Dean do the same. Every time “Ramble On” comes on the Impala’s radio, he’ll crank up the volume and sing way too loudly and off-key. It resonates with him. It makes him feel understood.

“Do you want to go closer to the stage?”

Dean’s body jumps a little at the question, despite the shake of his head. “I’m good. Unless you want to. Jovi rocks on occasion, ya know?”

“I don’t, actually.”

“You don—nevermind. Oh! This is a good one, listen to this.”

Cas turns back towards the stage, still perplexed.

_“I cried and I cried, there were nights that I died for you, baby_

_I tried and I tried to deny that your love drove me crazy, baby_

_If the love that I got for you's gone, if the river I cried ain't that long_

_Then I'm wrong, yeah I'm wrong, this ain't a love song”_

Cas nods, though he’s not quite sure he understands. Sure, he understands the lyrics, and the guitar is played beautifully throughout, but how can this resonate with Dean?

Dean’s quiet through the second song, which Cas actually finds himself connecting with. It’s like a match strikes inside the chamber of his lungs, heating and illuminating him from the inside out:

 

_“I've lost love, lived with shame_

_I was humbled by my fall from grace_

_On the steps of decision_

_It's revenge or forgiveness”_

It took a long time for Cas to forgive himself the first time he fell. The second time was even worse. He doesn’t regret either time in the least—he’s changed in ways God _feared_ his angelic creations would: He learned how to love and be loved. He’s felt the immeasurable pain of losing and the incomparable joy of redemption. He _feels,_ period.

“ _This_ one!” Dean exclaims into the third song, slapping Cas’s shoulder. “This one’s amazing! Listen!”

_“It's hard to remember a time_

_When I didn't have you_

_Didn't have nothing but a cold bed to come to at night_

_That was all I knew_

_Until there was you_

_And then you took my world_

_And turned it all around_

_I couldn't live without you now”_

Cas isn’t even looking at the silver-haired singer anymore. He’s looking at Dean. He’s looking at the way his head is bent forward, and his mouth is parted, and his lip curled up, and his eyes dancing across the room. It’s the happiest Cas has seen him in years.

That being said, it hardly comes as a surprise that the fourth song creeps up on them like a second car in the dead of night without a blinker:

 _“Yeah I, will love you, baby_  
Always and I'll be there  
Forever and a day, always

 _I'll be there, till the stars don't shine_  
'Til the heavens burst and the words don't rhyme  
I know when I die you'll be on my mind  
And I'll love you, always”

Suddenly, the flames from the match grow wings inside his chest, engulfing him in inescapable heat: He understands.

“Dean.”

“Hmm?”

“I know why you brought us here.”

Dean turns with something like fear glazed over his expression and visibly gulps. “Y-you do?”

Cas rolls his eyes with a smirk. He cups Dean’s face and closes the small gap between their chairs.

It’s a chaste kiss, nothing more than a brush as gentle as a stroke from the fibers of a paintbrush, because he effectively paints Dean a bright red—a stark contrast from the white earlier. “I, um… sorry, what?”

“I love you too, you ass,” Cas laughs. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble to tell me.”

Dean’s eyebrows furrow. “Sorry, I’m still not following.”

“You’ve always been very thoughtful with your gifts, Dean. I just didn’t expect you to go as far as drive thirty minutes out of your way to profess your love.”

“Oh no,” Dean says, shaking his head with a laugh of his own, “no, no, no. Cas, I didn’t—this…” He sighs before starting again: “I took you out so we could have some fun, you know, get away from home for a bit. I thought you meant you made me on being a closeted Bon Jovi fan—which, if Sam asks, I’m _not._ But you know; now you know…”

Cas feels the match flicker at those last few sentences, but he forces a smile despite. “Oh. My apologies. I’m sorry for… that.”

“I’m not.”

Cas’s eyes go wide. Maybe the fire isn’t dead after all. “What?”

“I’ve wanted you to do that for a long time,” Dean states, grinning ear-to-ear. “Hell, _I’ve_ wanted to do that for a long time.”

Cas doesn’t waste a second diving back into Dean’s lips as the song plays to completion:

 _“When he holds you close, when he pulls you near_  
When he says the words  
You've been needing to hear, I'll wish I was him  
'Cause these words are mine, to say to you  
'Til the end of time

 _Yeah I, will love you, baby_  
Always and I'll be there  
Forever and a day, always”

               


End file.
